


She's My Ride Home

by ghostwit



Category: One Piece
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Kid's a little shit., M/M, Minor Injuries, Pre-Canon, Some sorta horny stuff (you know how it be) but there's nothing even CLOSE to sex lol., Trans Male Character, a little bit...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 01:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20734337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwit/pseuds/ghostwit
Summary: Killer gets into fights. This is not new.(Hey, we can hide the bodies on the way home.)





	She's My Ride Home

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, pre-formation of the Kid Pirates, probably when they only have the beginnings of the idea for it. Kid is ~17 here. Really love this era of their past, hopefully we get to actually see it, haha. 
> 
> Some food for the brave KidKiller troops.

“You asleep?” Kid brushes his fingers against the grain of the threadbare blanket, baft spun loose and prone to fraying, traces the edge of a patch where he’d ripped the sleeve of a t-shirt off to add some substance to the sheet. He finds solace in the unevenness, secretly reveling in the off-beat feel, finds it fitting for their lifestyle and carrying their archetypes fully through. Killer makes no reply besides his soft, even breath and the wavering of his hair with the release and intake of air. The strands, thin and wiry, catch the dim lamp light filtering through the unpinned corner of the tarp they’d used to hastily cover a broken window, magnifies it and makes it glow flavescent, and his partner watches, stock-still. His fingers don’t cease their busy motion over the slope of Killer’s narrow shoulders, skimming the edge of the patch and fingering the coarse bumps of thread. The rate of his breathing and the soft shifting of his scattered halo maintains even as the redhead brings the flat of his palm down to the blonde’s hip and back up to his shoulder. Kid sighs, turns over to lay supine and splay his arms carelessly, watches the teasing wag of the single, bare lightbulb hung overhead. Eustass Kid is not accustomed to thought over action, and so he speaks.

“You’re a stupid bastard.” He’s quiet, sotto voce, voice high and thin from the unfamiliar strain. His hands fist cotton and his knuckles go impossibly pale from strain, veins popping in stark definition, “You’re a stupid, self-centered, reckless fucking bastard.” His voice is louder now, hoarse as his vocal cords stir to life. 

“Speak for yourself.” Killer is quiet, cutting in the night air, and Kid turns to him with a glare, eyebrow giving an angry twitch. The blonde still has his back to the younger, not turning to dignify him with a response. Kid stares for a beat, two, before the tense of his shoulders loosen and his eyebrows unknit. He reaches over, lifting his hips level to his thighs with a bent knee and arching his back to allow the blanket under him to be lifted and his questing fingers to slip under. His nails, even coat of glossy black chipped and flaky, immediately find their way to Killer’s back, slapping aside the cloth of the blonde’s t-shirt unceremoniously and digging into the soft skin of his back. He catches a scar as he brings his clawed hand down, making the angry, white-to-red line trailing behind his pinky waver ever-so-slightly to the side. He ends the swift motion with digging the brunt of his palm into the gamboge gape of an untreated slash wound at the older’s lower back, cringing at the tackiness of the wound. His partner flips immediately, and the blanket flies to obscure the redhead’s vision. When he lowers it with a smug flap of his hand, Killer’s got a knife--perfectly sharp and pulled from God knows where, catching the light just as the mass of his hanging hair does--hovering in the redhead’s field of vision. He grins, reaches up to wrap a hand around Killer’s throat and lifts his hips to rut against the man hovering above him, feels the way the baggy balzarine of the blonde’s sleep clothes bunch at the press of his bare legs. 

Killer sneers, “Fucking belonephile,” and the knife dips closer, just barely traces the sharp cut of Kid’s jaw in the light. “Did you wake me up just to insult me and get horny?” He draws a single bead of blood.

“Speak English, twat.”, the hand around Killer’s throat tightens in a quick pulse, and the way the elder’s pupils waver and roll back into his skull for a split second, even in the poor lighting, make Kid’s heart jackrabbit in his chest. He pulls him down, kisses him open and messy and listens to the smooth slide of the knife’s handle as it spins away onto the tile,  _ whoosh-whoosh-whoosh _ , nicking the redhead’s ear on the way down. Killer humors him, licking the taste of bike oil and night air out of the younger’s mouth before pulling away, panting. He flops back, smacking Kid on the chest (Kid laughs to himself at the wobble and muffled noise, typically sleeping in nothing more than a baggy tank-top; the swell of breast and the weekly injections are another sharp reminder to the blonde of the other’s growth) for good measure. 

“What the fuck did you need?” Killer’s voice is rusty, and Kid is eager to lubricate it with the slick slide of his tongue again. 

“Nothin’ now,” he whines, and rolls to lay his head on the blonde’s outspread arms, ear crushed against coarse bandage that circles his upper arm, nestled right below the bend of his armpit. He grinds down just enough to make the blonde sigh at the pain, feeling the tight roll of muscle and hearing the sticky  _ splosh _ of split skin through the bandage. His hands make their way to the other’s hips, drags the flat of his palm over his stomach to dip into his navel.

“Stop bugging me, then.” Killer curls his forefinger and thumb, releases, flicks the redhead’s fingers hard enough to make him flinch and raise his hand from the blonde’s skin, the pressure on his split nail making him wince.  
“Look at me.” Killer doesn’t turn. 

“I’m mad at you.” Killer sighs.

“I don’t want you getting fucked up over stupid shit. Fucking stupid. Quit it.”, his voice is strained with anger, fishing line pulled to tension and wobbling as the blonde takes his partners hand into his own and pulls it to his chest, rests his chin over it. 

“Kid, I’m a grown man. I don’t ne-” The redhead’s hand curls into an angry claw, and he digs into the collarbone presented before him for a few seconds before going limp. 

“Shut it. Wasn’t fucking done.”, he grits out as the blonde tucks his chin down to soothe his stubble over the point of tender contact, running his thumbs over the firm swell of Kid’s knuckles, feeling out the imprints of fading bruises. 

“Not without me, shithead. I don’t care if you go down if you go down swinging. Just not alone. I’m going with you.” The redhead is speaking right into the mass of hair before him (always so clean, pretty, a marvel to Kid), forehead tipped forward to meet the back of his partner’s head, and the muffling gives the words a quaint tenderness to them that makes Killer’s chest constrict. His tone is biting and rough, dropping off into unaffected smugness near the end, but the way Kid squeezes the other’s hand as he speaks betrays to him all that he needs to know. He sighs again, soft enough for Kid to know it’s not meant to be acknowledged, and he lifts their joined hands to kiss his knuckles. It wasn’t a big deal, he’s fine, a little peeved at Kid’s distrust, but he understands the sentiment, knows the way possession ( _ fear _ , too, something he’s sure not even Kid could vocalize) makes his partner go tight and thin like spun glass. He’ll concede.

“Yes, captain.”

Kid’s teeth are cold and wet on the back of his neck, tickling at the blonde’s hairline hairline, as his face splits open into a wolfish grin. 

“So, can we fuck?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to leave a comment for any reason at all! Luv validation. Mwah.
> 
> hazeism.tumblr.com


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